


The Economy of Gift-Giving

by smallandsleepy



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22818022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallandsleepy/pseuds/smallandsleepy
Summary: Prompt: "Look I know you're a commie but I will buy you extravagant gifts until you love my capitalist ass."
Relationships: authleft/libright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 96





	The Economy of Gift-Giving

**Author's Note:**

> kudos to this reddit post for the prompt!! 
> 
> here's some opp unity f/f that no one asked for, pls enjoy

I.

“You’re never going to fix that thing anyway!” 

Commie looks up and glares at Ancap. A dilapidated pocketwatch that has probably been through the second world war dangles from her grip. 

“Of course you’d think that anything remotely malfunctioning should just be thrown away and replaced with ten new items. Consumerism at its finest.” 

Ancap grins. “Sounds brilliant.” 

Ah, typical Commie. Communists are diametrically opposed to nice things on principle, but even Ancom wouldn’t hold on to some Soviet relic of a watch that had broken down three times in just as many weeks. 

It’s really fucking endearing, in a way. But Ancap wants to get Commie some nice things sometimes too, if only to see her reaction. So Ancap, hardworking capitalist that she is, takes matters into her own hands. 

Ancap’s order arrives within the day, thanks to the extra that she paid the McSwatch deliverers for a little overtime. Commie looks rather ill when unwrapping the ten layers of plastic and styrofoam, and stares in horror at the sight of the brand new, designer, electronic -- latest model! -- watch Ancap has gotten her.

Gold-plated and intricately carved, it goes beautifully with the maroon blazer she’s always wearing around. She would hardly recommend gift-giving to other capitalists. But voluntarily exchanging a small part of her fortune just for the pleasure of buying expensive things, for Commie of all people, is a sweet deal.

(Commie doesn’t wear the watch, of course. She sighs exasperatedly at Ancap and continues trying to fix her stupid old pocketwatch. But she does use it like some kind of clock, placing it stiffly on her bedside table and consulting it in the morning. Ancap is fine with that. It feels oddly intimate, actually. She needs to buy Commie more gifts.) 

II.

Valentine’s Day is one of Ancap’s favourite days of the year. Flowers, shopping, sex, extravagence, and, ah, that beautiful flurry of cold hard cash. 

Ancap doesn’t actually buy things as much as she convinces other people to. But this time, she’s gone down to the luxury florist’s, and personally promised the wealthy owner a small fortune in crypto in exchange for the most decadent bouquet they could put together.

She can already imagine Commie sitting her down and lecturing her about unpaid labour and decadency, and probably how she wants that rich florist dead, or whatever. Commie, in her boots and collared shirt, the lovely sweep of her hair, her long fingers. That strong curve in her jaw. 

Mmm. Ancap could deal with that. She’s been thinking about Commie all the time lately, and she suspects that she is not buying Commie flowers for Valentine’s Day for the sole purpose of pissing her off. Well, that works too, because Commie is hot as fuck when she is pissed off. But yeah. 

In any case, the bouquet is gorgeous. Ancap counts about thirty odd flowers, fresh and exotic and blooming like the freedom of libertarianism. A sheen of powdered diamonds dusts the stems, and the whole thing is delicately wrapped in gold-trimmed silk. 

She heads home from the florist almost at a run, and flings the door open excitedly. 

“Commie!” she sings. Surely Commie is home -- Ancap saw her before leaving for the florist. 

Then the door to Commie’s room bangs open and Ancom storms out, mask askew and looking furious. Ancap hears quem mutter something about unjust hierarchies and ‘authoritarian pricks’, before Ancom shoves quis way down the corridor and out of sight.

Interesting. 

Ancap has never been able to put her finger on whatever is between Ancom and Commie. There’s definitely a little bit of something, and if Ancap has to hear the ridiculous nicknames they call each other one more time she is going to need her recreational McNukes. And fuck, fuck if she sometimes wishes she could be Ancom. Commie pays Ancom so much fucking attention it makes her fucking head hurt. 

Not now, though. Ancap cautiously pushes the door open to find Commie sitting at her table, fists balled in front of her, jaw clenched. 

“Fuck off, Anar -- oh, it’s you, kulak -- what --” 

Ancap flushes a little. She didn’t expect to walk in on a fight. But whatever, it is none of her business. She grins, holds the bouquet out to Commie, and winks. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Commie.” 

Commie stares in shock and horror. Ancap almost giggles. 

“A capitalist sham holiday! You didn’t have to -- well, thank you, but --” 

Ancap sidles over and sits down beside Commie, brushing their arms together. Commie is a head taller than her. Her curly hair tickles her face, and Ancap gets the urge to string her fingers through it. She wants to swing her legs over Commie’s lap and lean her head into Commie’s shoulder. Just being near Commie sometimes has that effect on her these days. She’s fucked. 

“Never had a kulak buy you flowers before?” 

(And then the expected lecture begins, of course. Commie sounds more exasperated than pissed off, though.

The next day, Ancap wakes up to find Commie in their shared yard. Ancap’s bouquet has turned into a row of freshly potted flowers. Commie has taken Ancap’s gorgeous, exotic, libertarian bouquet apart, and made it into something like a garden -- those collaborative, communal ones that she would probably instate, assuming communism could afford flowers. 

Ancap doesn’t think the flowers would last, but she does help out. If only to admire the surprisingly tender care with which Commie handles every stalk with her long fingers. And the single leaf that falls endearingy onto her ushanka without her noticing. 

And, of course, to have Commie boss her around again.) 

III. 

Ancap returns home late one evening to find Commie sprawled on the living room couch, hair splayed all over her face, a bottle of vodka clutched in both hands and tipping dangerously toward the ground. 

“Commie?” 

Ancap hurries forward. She lifts the bottle out of Commie’s hands and sets it on the table. She sits down beside Commie, tries to smooth some of Commie’s hair out of her face. Commie’s head droops gently towards her shoulder. 

Ancap knows that Commie has a penchance for intense emotionality and a taste for hard liquor, but she has never seen her like this before. It is almost alarming. 

“What is it, Commie?”

Commie straightens, just a little, and looks up at Ancap through bloodshot eyes. “Kulak.” 

“Yes, it’s me,” Ancap hums. “Do I get the gulag n --” 

“Why… why the fuck do you… s-systems of exploitation. Take all… all the s-urplus value -- and…” 

Ancap shifts in her seat. Oh, right. She personally doesn’t care for debating theory or getting emotional about technicalities. The leftists do it all the time to no effect whatsoever, and Nazi gets into arguments just for the sake of it, which is honestly pretty pathetic. Ancap would rather spend the time working, and have the free market demonstratably solve everything in question. 

But Commie isn’t done. 

“I’m t-tired, Ancap… N-no more class struggle. No more… struggle. Classless… classless society…” 

Yeah, Commie is probably just drunk as fuck. But the exhaustion that cracks her voice is very real. Her head falls onto Ancap’s shoulder and Ancap swallows. 

“I don’t like unjust hierarchy either, Commie. I too want everyone to be free. I too want everyone to get what they earn and earn what they get. It’s how anarchist capitalism works.” 

Commie chuckles softly. It sounds wet and sad. “You and I…. very different way of g-going about -- about -- about things.” 

Ancap sighs. “Never would have guessed that, Commie. You should go to bed. You’re wasted.” 

Commie reaches, almost instinctively, for a final swig from the bottle, and Ancap doesn’t stop her. It takes a while, but she eventually helps Commie to her feet. Commie is heavy against her, heavy and warm and smelling like salt, and Ancap puts their arms around each other’s waists to balance them. Commie’s ushanka tips into Ancap’s hair, and Ancap reaches up to set it back on her head, pausing at the feel of Commie’s hair through her fingers. 

She wakes up early the next morning to set a cup of tea on Commie’s bedside table. Luxury tea doesn’t come cheap, and she’s pretty sure that Commie has once been on a spiel about this particular company’s troubling record with unions. But, well, it works on hangovers.

(And as much as they disagree on just about everything, Ancap doesn’t like to see Commie in the state that she was yesterday.) 

IV.

“Look what I got for you, Commie.” 

Ancom and Nazi are both out, and Ancap has managed to get Commie alone in her room again. She’s getting pretty good at this. It is certainly a profitable skill to hone. 

Commie eyes her suspiciously. “Ancap, if it’s another one of your attempts to make me participate in capitalist --” 

Ancap pulls her box out, and carefully unfolds the new designer blazer she bought not an hour ago. The satin feels delicious beneath her fingers. It is in Commie’s favourite shade of maroon, smart and trim, lapels lined with gold. The moment Ancap set eyes on it she had wanted Commie to have it. Wanted to see Commie wear it. 

Commie’s eyes widen. “Ancap, I’m really not going to --” 

“Try it on!” She wonders how much it would violate the NAP to manually help Commie into the blazer herself. “Come on, Commie, you’d look so hot in it. Just do it for me. You can give it back if you don’t like it, you know, I’m not going to violate the NAP.” 

Commie raises her eyebrows, and Ancap sees the corners of her mouth twitch, just a little. 

“Very well, I’ll try it.” She picks the blazer up gingerly, as though she is almost afraid of touching it, and proceeds to take her regular old blazer off. Ancap’s heart pounds excitedly. Commie puts the new blazer on, and, yeah, oh fuck, she looks hot as fuck -- even more than usual. Ancap wonders what kind of ridiculously infatuated expression she has on her face right now. She doesn’t particularly care. 

“See, I’m right,” she tells Commie. “Look at yourself.” 

Commie eyes her with her eyebrows raised, a twinkle of amusement in her dark eyes, so hard and serious most of the time. 

“You’re a capitalist, Ancap. You wouldn’t buy anyone things for free. All these useless, hedonistic, capitalistic goods you pile on me… I’m somehow starting to think they’re more for your sake than mine.” 

Ancap twirls a lock of hair around her finger and looks up at Commie from under her lashes. She moves closer. “Maybe so, Commie. Maybe so.” 

(Commie kisses her. Commie presses her into the bedroom door, and Ancap sighs, leg twisting around Commie’s thigh to hold her in place. Her fingers tug at Commie’s sexy designer blazer. Commie is tall and strong against her and her mouth is rough and warm and Ancap hums breathlessly into it, wrapping her arms around Commie’s waist to pull her closer. Maybe she’d recommend gift-giving to other venture capitalists after all. Best returns ever.)


End file.
